Doctor Milton Bradley
by Averse
Summary: ...'We'll ask eachother questions. About anything. After you answer you take a shot.' 'You should work for MiltonBradley,' he responds with a roll of his eyes, but he sits down his glass and she knows he has conceded.
1. I

**Author's Note: **Again, another really random fic. It doesn't really fit anywhere in particular, so apply it wherever you want, lol. I'm on a roll this week, it looks like. Please read and review! I mean, I take an hour or more to write these. You can spare me five seconds and write a review. :) This'll have two parts...perhaps three, depending.

_---_

"For someone who doesn't care about patients, you take it really hard when they die."

Her voice is an unwanted interruption to the silence of a nearly empty bar. Like a bomb, only more intrusive, he thinks darkly and with a scowl. He reaches for his glass and downs the remnants of amber, resting his chin on his hand like a perturbed child. His only reaction beyond is to shift his weight in his chair and strech his leg out further, pleased at the lack of aching. He takes the vicodine to make his leg stop hurting -- he drinks to forget that it ever hurt at all. He taps the glass against the counter peevishly, and the bartender is there in an instant, already brandishing tonight's drink of choice without question. He swishes the dark liquid around in its confinement and seems to be utterly transfixed. In reality, he thinks that if he ignores her long enough she will go away. But of course she won't, and he is fully away of it; duly aware, in fact, for he's tried to drink _her_ into oblivion before. When the variables don't change, the solution doesn't either -- otherwise it wouldn't make sense. And if something doesn't make sense, it cannot exist. It means you were wrong somewhere along the line.

And that is exactly what brought him here.

He is House. He is never wrong, and knows it. He is smug in his genius and takes comfort in the solidity of his frame of mind. He can diagnose anything. It's the only reason he still has a job, and he knows it. He credits his success to rationality. He always has logic behind his theories, even if he doesn't share it. When he tells Cuddy or his ducklings that he just has a 'hunch,' or a 'feeling,' he is simply testing them. Testing their trust. He could rationalize anything until the cows come home. And this time he had gone the extra mile, proved his thesis aloud. Except this time he was wrong.

_He was wrong_.

He hears her shoes clatter mutedly against the grainy, hard-wood flooring. He takes a sip of his drink. She knows he's drunk. She has seen him drunk on more than one occasion. The way his cane has fallen to the ground, the way he doesn't notice the must-be uncomfortable position his leg is in. She can't see his face, because he hasn't turned around, but she is sure if he did she would _see_ that he is drunk. She shuffles forwards silently, and places a hand on his shoulder. Like butterfly wings, like the waves rolling over the sand -- there is nothing much to it, it is quick and ginger. He shifts slightly, uncomfortable, shrugs her off. She sits down beside him, utterly undeterred.

"I _don't_ care about the patients," he responds finally, pursing his lips. "I care about myself. And it's typically bad for me when my diagnosis is _wrong, _in case you haven't picked up on this yet. In Cuddy's book, patients dying equals _bad_." His voice is low and gravelly, and she smells the alcohol on his breath. She sees the accentuated, dark circles beneath his eyes, the ashen palor to his face. He sips his drink again. Yeah. He's pretty much wasted. But she doesn't focus on that. She picks apart his words carefully like a doctor should. Because if she treats him like a case, then she can detatch herself from him completely, and treat him with the kind indifference she treats any other patient. It's so much simpler that way. She wonders how he manages to detatch himself from everybody constantly. It must be a singular talent, she decides.

She clasps her hands in front of her, and neither he nor her looks at the other. "Everyone messes up, House."

"Oh, wow. You're right. Thanks Dr. Cameron, I feel so much better now."

"House..."

He always insists she doesn't know him. And she doesn't, but she knows his habits. She knows that something is seriously wrong if he gives someone a straight, witless answer. She knows that he is a master of arguing. That if you have a bone to pick with him, you might as well jump off of a cliff, because he's going to smash any oral curve-ball you can throw his way. And she also knows that if something is bothering him he becomes glib and rationalizes too much. He always insists she doesn't know him. And she doesn't, so she doesn't argue. But she's pretty close.

She watches as he throws back the rest of his drink and bangs the glass against the counter with renewed vigor. His head is bowed slightly, his eyes open and thoughtful. He looks at her through the corner of his eye, and she feels his gaze, she always does, but she doesn't react. Cameron continues to stare at her steepled fingers.

"I thought you of all people would be crying yourself to sleep." She knew that was coming. She rolls her eyes, a precise, practiced motion that House is used to. But somewhere within it strikes a chord of resonance, and a note trembles within her.

"I guess I learned a few things from you," She murmurs in response, her tone succint and biting. She is done with the conversation, and he smirks darkly and bobs his head in what she can only assume is a nod, though a sloppy excuse for one. He takes another sip of his newly-refilled beverage, savoring the searing path it forges to his stomach. Cameron frowns, though still doesn't look up. She knows his little habits and quirks, but she doesn't know how to deal with him when he's closed off like this. When he shuts down, glacial contempt swallowing his features, she feels helpless. But she also feels bitter, because it proves his point -- she is fairly sure there is nothing she can do to help him, but she has to try anyway. Her scowl deepens. She turns to him. "A patient died. So what?"

"So...the family is going to have to spring for a coffin ahead of time."

"_So?_" She presses, annoyed with his evasive sarcasm.

"_So_, it might not fit into their financial plan." His return is instantaneous, almost like he knew what she was going to say. Cameron hates how he does that. "What is this? Twenty questions? I don't recall signing any forms."

She quirks a brow and shifts back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap as she thinks. She bites her lower lip pensively and he downs another glass, banging it off of the counter a little harder than last time. She raises both brows, now. She knew House was drunk -- he doesn't show it like other people, doesn't get irrational and unintelligent. He gets colder, more sarcastic, rougher. And occasionally a _little_ crazier than usual. But he _is_ drunk. And he is human. She leans forwards again, interlacing her fingers and resting her elbows on the counter, her chin atop her fingers. He shifts so that he's looking at her now and doesn't even notice as he bangs his leg very slightly off of the chair. "Sure. Yeah, alright. We're playing twenty questions."

"Wait, I thought I was _your_ boss!" He exlaims, taking a long sip of the dark liquid. She snorts. "I wasn't aware I'd been usurped. It's common ettiquette to inform the president before you impeach him." House. As president. She shivers unconsciously.

"And I wasn't aware you were afraid of drinking games." She keeps her cool, her voice is ice. Smooth. His face barely shifts, but she can tell he is intrigued.

"You conveniently left out the drinking part."

"I hadn't thought of it yet."

"Ah," he breathes, curiosity piqued. Perhaps it's how much alcohol he has had to drink already, the shock of losing a patient, the internal anguish of finding out that his theoretical capacity for error is in fact less allegorical than previously thought, but the very corner of his lips turn upwards as he looks at her almost appraisingly. If anything, he is praising the job he has done molding her. She is so different from how she was when he first hired her. He likes his version better. Cameron two-point-oh.

"Okay," Cameron says finally, drumming her fingers on the counter to get the bartenders attention. He comes over expectantly and she holds a finger up attentively. "We'll ask eachother questions. About anything. After you answer you take a shot."

"You should work for Milton-Bradley," he responds with a roll of his eyes, but he sits down his glass and she knows he has conceded. The bartender reaches down and places two shot glasses before them, followed by a rather large bottle of who-cares-what.

"Ready?"

"Shoot."


	2. II

**Author's Note:** Yeah. This may be out of character. So bite me. : P If you want me to add a third chapter, you'd better tell me! Hehe.

"Why did you become a doctor?"

"Chicks dig the stethoscope." House grabs a shot and downs it quickly, smacking his lips. She rolls her eyes. She should have been more specific when writing the rules. He leans back in his chair and furrows his brow. "Why are you here?"

"Guys with stethoscopes dig chicks." Cameron retorts quickly, although she takes no pride in her quip. This isn't going how she wanted it to. But she knew if she tried to push some sincerity from him, he would close up and become all rational and academic. Or worse. He'd become mean. House was sarcastic by nature -- one just had to accept it. His wit was often biting, but very rarely did he intentionally try to hurt someone. She thinks he can, though. She thinks that if he wants to, he can hurt anyone with words, because he's very good at observing people. So she plays it safe. She has already spent a few hours collecting herself, biting back bitter tears. Because even though she pretends his glacial behavior is contagious, she knows it's not. He rolls his eyes at her words, and she wonders what he was like as a teenager going through puberty. House was hellish enough. A moody House? She takes the shot to hide her smile. He repours the fiery liquid carefully, waiting for her question. "Did you ever sleep with Cuddy?" Her words are more hesitant than she'd wanted, shaking like the final leaf on a tree during winter. She bites her lip.

He is obviously thrown a little off-balance by the seemingly spontaneous question. He frowns ever so slightly. His fingers were already curling eagerly around his shot glass, but he lets go and waves his hand dismissively. "No answer no shot. Why do you want to know?"

"Everybody wants to know." She brazenly waves his hovering hand away and downs his shot, her silvery eyes mischevious. "Did you ever sleep with Cuddy?" She feels like a parrot. Worse. She feels like _his_ parrot, trained to do his bidding.

"Yes." He pauses, pours himself a shot, downs it, shifts his leg. She wonders if the sporadic rather than continuous stream of alcohol has any effect on his former numbness. He knows it does. She thinks that the alcohol is like vicodine. She has always theorized that it was more of a psychological ordeal. He knows it is. "Did you ever sleep with Foreman?" She blinks, wide-eyed with surprise.

"_What_?"

"_Good question_," he says, patronizingly, grinning a coy, lop-sided smile as he pours another and lifts it to his lips. She sees his hand shaking ever so slightly. "Did you sleep with Foreman?" He drinks it. She rolls her eyes and scoffs, trying to hide the strange, tight feeling that has spread through her body when he admitted to sleeping with Cuddy from showing on her face.

"Never. He's a friend." She takes a shot, twirling the crystalline glass in her fingers and making a point not to look at him. Cameron likes Cuddy. She admires Cuddy. But for a split second, hot hatred boils in her stomach like spitting flames. She swallows it. "When?"

He knows what she's asking despite her vagueness. He is curious. Logically, there are only two reasons she would be asking. One: Cuddy was getting Cameron to do her dirty work and it was a Jane told John who told Beth who told Sam and Sally who told Autin who told Jane ordeal, where Jane -- or Cuddy -- just wanted to know what he thought without asking. But that wasn't likely. He tilted his head very slightly, a quarter of a degree. Two: Cameron was jealous. He liked that one. It gave him power. Gave him control over her; he could manipulate her anyway he wanted if logic held true. Perhaps, if House were one to believe in signs, he might see an etherael correlation between he encountering Cameron tonight and his current state of partial drunkeness and their current game. But he didn't, because signs implied belief in a god. So it was simply a mathmatical coincidence instead of a fated one. One interger and another.

"Dunno," he responds, shrugging. He is going to fake nonchalance. "A few times since I've been hired." He felt like he was trapped in a soap opera. He took a shot. "What about Wilson?"

"No," she responds shortly, and he momentarily wonders if he has struck a nerve. If something happened between them that would make this sore. He fingers his shot glass. He decides he doesn't care. "Why?"

"She digs my stethoscope," he responds after a very slight pause, and Cameron snorts, taking the shot she had forgotten. She wished she could get him to shut up so _she_ could interrogate. Curiosity, and maybe something else, is gnawing viciously on her insides. "I'm running out of male co-workers. Did you sleep with Cuddy?"

"Who hasn't?" It is a seemingly harmless dig, playful, even. But her eyes flash and seem a shade darker as he looks at her. He smirks as she drops her gaze quickly, evasively, and tosses a shot down her throat, swallowing melodramatically. House is talented in several unique and limited aspects. He is a renowned and unparalleled diagnostician. He is brilliant in the art of persuasion and sarcasm. But his most natural, in-born talent is for observation. He subtly observes everybody -- he takes them apart and puts them together again until he knows their inner-workings better than they do. He loves puzzles. Every person is a puzzle. Some are just more difficult than others.

Cameron's puzzle is like a young child's with obscure pieces: easy in theory but harder in reality. He has been putting it together since the day she came into his office to interview for a position -- quite frankly, House had been ready to hire her when she walked through the door. He needed something to keep him focused on work. Cameron's appearence accomplished this easily. She was beautiful -- he had admitted it, admitted to noticing and staring occasionally. Physical attraction was something he had no qualms speaking of. It was what went deeper that scared him. Not that his draw to her was anything more than lust. Naturally.

He rubs his temples and prays she'd ask her question soon.  
He needs that shot.

"Are you being intentionally dense?"

"Not intentionally. _Naturally_," he pauses, takes his shot. His mind calms. "I'm a man, remember?" The latter is thickly caustic, his tone mocking. She rolls her eyes again. He refills their shot glasses. "Why are you asking me about Cuddy?"

"I already told you. Everybody is curious." She takes the shot.

"So you're doing it for charity?" His question interrupts her own, breaking the cycle. She smiles softly, half-heartedly, bemusedly. She doesn't really know what to say. She could admit that the thought of him with Cuddy makes her want to throw herself off of the hospital roof. She could admit that she does has feelings for him. That she is awful at holding her drink and already feels like the room is spinning. She could tell him that there's a chance she might pass out soon and fall off of the chair. She could tell him that she feels utterly green -- and not just in a manifestation of her drunkeness, but with jealousy, too. But she doesn't. Because she has learned some things from him. She has learned to close off her emotions with patients. But her prior dellusion that she could treat him that way is faltering and temporary. She runs a hand across her features, shadowing them.

"No."

"Cheater," he responds quickly. Almost too quickly as he hands her the shot she didn't take after answering his question. That is her signal to stop. That he isn't going to go any further with personal interrogations unless they're followed by obligatory alcohol. He secretly thinks that she could be a fun drunk. She accepts the drink openly, pours it down her throat and savors the burning sensation even though it is beginning to lose its effect. She sees two Houses at once. It is a frightening prospect. She thinks her heart couldn't handle _two_ of him. It has trouble keeping regular cadence with one.

"Uhm..." She begins, framing her forehead with splayed fingers as she leans forwards, her mind beginning to scramble.

"Promising prologue..."

"_Uhm_," she repeats, casting him a dark look. She suddenly finds him aggravating. But that's just the alcohol pumping through her system. "How the hell do you drink this much?"

"Practice." He takes a shot, his pale eyes glinting mischeviously, though the normally clear, contemplative colour is shaded slightly. With what she isn't sure. "How much does it take to get you drunk?" The corner of his mouth twitches upwards.

"About three shots," comes her slurred response, and she grins, tossing another one back. "Why do you drink so much?"

"Numbs the pain." House intones, gesturing towards his leg with a long index finger. He eyes his shot glass. She quirks a brow. There cannot possibly be a way to out-drink him. He couldn't have given up already, she thinks. And of course he hasn't. He reaches for the bottle and presses it to his lips, downing a rather large amount before handing it to her. She eyes it distastefully. But his response isn't satisfying, so she continues, waits for his question. "You're drunk?"

"Significantly," she drawls with a roll of her eyes, leaning back as she dumps the chilled liquid down her throat. She doesn't feel anymore. She knows what he meant, now. Drinking doesn't numb the pain in his leg -- that's just a pretense. Drinking numbs his pain in general. She frowns as she places the bottle on the counter. "What causes you pain, then?"

"Dude, how rude are you? Rubbing a cripple's inabilities in his face." He shakes his head and reaches for the bottle. She watches him, watches the liquid. He doesn't swallow at all. Her eyes narrow very slightly. "What was the craziest thing you ever did when you were drunk?"

She pauses. He has struck a nerve. She bites her lip and looks away for a split second. He is intrigued.

"Slept with my husband's friend," she mumbles, shifting uncomfortably. He thinks she really needs to get over it. It obviously happened a significant time ago. House thinks of other relevancies, too -- he wishes he could take another shot. He had been pretending last time. "Are you just pretending to drink?"

"Not anymore." He lifts the bottle and takes a lengthy swig. "Before or after you were actually married?"

"...Before. But it's the general idea." He snorts with disgust, and she sticks out her tongue like a petulant child. She takes a drink, slowly, laborously, and stares at him pensively. She knows what she wants to ask. She takes a metaphorical back-step. "Do _I_ ever cause you pain?" She gets the reaction she knew she would. He chuckles. It is a low, gravelly sound. More of a vibration than an actual auditory sense, and she rubs she back of her neck self-consciously. When he's done, he lurches to his feet and grabs his cane gracelessly from the ground. Now standing, he reaches for the bottle and takes one last, long drink. The bottle is empty.

He walks away and she is alone in the bar with two empty shot glasses and an empty bottle of who-cares-what.


End file.
